He put his hand to her neck, moving the hair aside and stroking it gently until she tipped her head back to look up at him again, nodding for him to go on. He undid her belt, hearing it drop to the floor, then slowly began pulling the dress up, gathering it until she raised her arms, trancelike, and it was over her head and off, then somewhere on the floor, and she was naked. Both hands now along her neck as he kissed the top of her head, rubbing his face in her hair. He moved his hands down her back, resting at the bottom, then walked her to the bed, sitting her down on the pink spread.
He started to undo his belt buckle, but she reached up and did it for him, the shirt falling away, then pulled the zipper and put her hands on his hips, pushing pants and underwear down at the same time until he sprang free and she was looking at him. She touched his penis, moving her hand over it slowly, making it familiar, and he stood rigidly, his eyes closed, trying not to feel her. Finally he took her hand away and dropped to the bed, moving next to her so that they were facing each other, his hand on her hip as they kissed.
Slowly, a little bit at a time. He began stroking her softly, every piece of skin familiar, the curve of her back, the hollow just before her hip, the underside of her breast, brushing it with the back of his hand until it rose with her breathing, trying to imagine her feeling it, to do it for her. Everything familiar. Except the pleasure, the feeling itself, always new, different every time, like the sky, too immediate to hold in memory. You remembered skin, the shape of a curve, but the rest disappeared and you spent your whole life coming back to it, again and again, only to find it was never the same, each time a surprise. So private no one else could ever feel it. He tried to hold himself back, emptying his mind, but she pressed up against him and there it was again, insistent. But not now; a little at a time, the grateful luxury of simply touching her. All this time and he hadn’t remembered anything, just the outline, just enough to want it again.
“Lena,” he said, a whisper, “are you sure?” but she covered his mouth, an open kiss, willing them quiet, and he wondered where she was, not lost in the feeling with him but somewhere inside her head, maybe in the past, where they no longer needed to go.
He moved his hand down to her thigh, trying to reach her. The soft inside, the most vulnerable place in the world, gently, light enough to coax her back. When he ran his finger along her bush, trying to open the lips, he could feel she was still dry, still closed away, for all the kissing and rubbing against him. Not ready. A little more. He put his finger in his mouth, wetting it, then placed it over her clitoris, just resting it, until he heard her intake of breath, a connection, and began moving it lightly in a circle, the merest graze, moistening it, circling wider and moving smoothly now, getting slick with her own wet. Her pelvis moved against him, as if she were trying to close her legs, but instead they went slack, opening to his finger. “Oh,” she said, an involuntary sigh, as he slipped it farther down, still rubbing lightly back and forth until it was wet enough, then farther, parting the lips, slipping finally inside her, feeling the heat as she closed around him. He paused to let her catch her breath, but she put her hand over his, forcing him to keep moving it, and his finger continued in a steady back and forth, lingering near the top to circle the nub, then down, the lips spreading wider until she was open and wet everywhere, riding his finger. She turned to open her mouth to him again, as wet as below, reaching behind his head to lock him to her as her hips kept moving. When she broke away, gasping for air, shaking a little, it was to take hold of his penis. “With you,” she said, drawing it to her, the head jumping when it touched the slick open skin.
